Bressant | Page 5

the greatest unselfishness, yet do we find a weakness in our
hearts which we cannot believe wholly wrong, strongly prompting us to
yearn and cling--even unwisely--to those who have our best affection.
"And what seems wise to-day may be proved folly to-morrow," is our
argument, "so let us cling to the good we have."
And Professor Valeyon well knew that what time his daughters
departed to visit the outer world was likely to be the beginning of a
longer journey than to Boston or New York. They were attractive, and,
it was to be supposed, liable to be attracted; he would not be so weak as
to imagine that their love for their father could long remain supreme.
But this old man, who had kept abreast of the learning of the world, and
was scarred with many a bruise and stab received during his life's
journey; who had filled a pulpit, too, and preached Christian humility
to his fellow townspeople, had yet so much human heat and pride
glowing like embers in his old heart as to feel strong within him a bitter
jealousy and sense of wrong toward whatever young upstarts should
intrude themselves, and venture to brag of a love for his flesh and blood
which might claim precedence over his own. Doubtless the feeling was
unworthy of him, and he would, when the time came, play his part
generously and well; but, so long as the matter was purely imaginary,
we may allow him some natural ebullition of feeling.
So powerful, indeed, was the effect produced upon Professor Valeyon
by the succession and conflict of gloomy and painful emotions, that he
laid down his black clay-pipe upon the broad arm of the easy-chair, and
began to search in all directions for his handkerchief: indulging himself
meanwhile with the base reflection that as there was no present
probability of depriving himself of his daughters, that ceremony must,
for a time at least, be postponed. While yet the handkerchief-hunt was
in full cry, the professor's ears caught the rattle and flap of the opening
gate, and following it the quick, vigorous tap of small boot-heels upon
the marble flagstones. Next came a light, rustling spring up the

creaking porch-steps, and ere the old gentleman could get his head far
enough over his knees to see down the entry, a fresh-looking young
woman appeared smiling in the door-way, dressed in a tawny
summer-suit, and holding up in one hand a long, slender envelop,
sealed with a conspicuous monogram, and stamped with the New York
post-mark.


CHAPTER II.
SIGNS OF A THUNDER-SHOWER.
Before the delivery of the letter, a very pretty little ceremony took place.
The professor had stretched forth his hand to receive it, when, by a
sudden turn of the wrist and arm, the young lady whisked it out of his
reach and behind her back, and in place of it brought down her fresh,
sweet face with its fragrant mouth to within two inches of his own
wrinkled and bristly visage. A moment after, the ceremony was
completed, the letter delivered, and the postman, stepping over her
father's fallen slipper, leaned against the balcony-railing, and waited for
further developments.
The professor took his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, placed
them carefully upon his strongly-marked nose, and scrutinized in turn
the direction, post-mark, and seal. With a sniff of surprise, he then tore
open the envelop, and became immediately absorbed in the contents of
the inclosure, indicating his progress by much pursing and biting of his
lips, wrinkling of his forehead, and drawing together of his heavy
eyebrows. Having at length reached the end of the last page, he turned
it sharply about, and went through it once more, with half-articulate
grunts of comment; and finally, folding the letter carefully up, and
replacing it in the torn envelop, he caught the spectacles off his nose,
and, with them in one hand and the paper in the other, fixed his eyes
upon the vacant spot at the summit of the hill.

His daughter meanwhile had taken off her brown straw-hat, and was
using it as a fan, keeping up a light tattoo with one foot upon the plank
flooring. Her face was glowing with her four-mile walk in the hot sun,
but she showed no signs of weariness. The position in which she stood
was easy and graceful, but there was nothing statuesque or imposing
about it; it was evident that at the very next instant she might shift into
another equally as happy. Her eyes wandered from one object to
another with the absence of concentration of one whose mind is not
fixed upon any thing in particular. From the letter between the
professor's finger and thumb, they traveled upward to his thoughtful
countenance; thence took a leap to